The Dark Ground

by Gillian Cross

  The great wings steadied, banking and turning, rising up out of the forest, above the tops of the trees. Up and up and up. Robert’s stomach lurched, and he retched, jerking at his wound as his body convulsed.

  There was another turn and another vicious, excruciating swing. For a moment he was hovering in midair, with nothing below him except thick darkness and an unimaginable drop. Then they spun away again, sideways and down, and landed with a lurch.

  Robert was slammed onto a hard surface, so violently that he lost his hold. The claws still gripped him tightly, but the rest of his body was flung backward, arms sprawling. The fierce, yellow eyes came roaring at him, huge and alien. Below them was a gigantic, murderous hook, aiming straight at his belly.

  Beyond thought—beyond everything—he scrabbled backward, scraping his outflung arms over the roughness under him. His fingers closed over something long and straight, and he snatched at it, bringing it around and up in one fast, violent movement.

  The fierce eyes were so close that the nearest one filled his whole field of vision. He jabbed straight at it with his weapon, as hard as he could. Into the black, gleaming center.

  There was a furious screech. The hooked beak recoiled for an instant. Then it stabbed back at him, and this time he didn’t escape completely. As he went for the other eye, the beak ripped at his arm, opening a long, jagged wound. But he hardly felt the pain. He continued to strike into the soft tissue around the eye.

  The creature flinched and released its claw for a split second. That was enough. Robert rolled away, as fast as he could, without worrying where he might land. His raw flesh scraped over rough, serrated ridges—and plunged into emptiness.

  All around him there was nothing except space. He was falling down and down and down into darkness.

  For a long, terrifying moment, he thought that he was falling the whole dizzying distance back down to the ground, to smash through the tree-trunk bridge and into the gulf below. But then the air thickened, chokingly, and he understood that he was somewhere inside, falling deeper and deeper in.

  As he grasped that, he hit the bottom, plunging into a soft litter of rotting wood. He was in a dark, close space that reeked of blood and death.

  He retched once more, and then the darkness slid inside his head, and he passed out.

  HE CAME TO GRADUALLY, DRAGGING HIMSELF OUT OF unconsciousness, taking a long time to focus.

  There was a dim light now, coming from somewhere way above his head. Images formed and blurred and formed again as he lay looking up, turning his head slowly to take everything in.

  He was lying in an ogre’s den.

  It was a tall, grim cavern, roughly circular, with ragged, ribbed walls. There was a stench of rotten meat. The light—what there was of it—came from two small openings, high in one of the walls, and it shone down on a litter of old bones, some of them still carrying shreds of flesh.

  Robert felt sick and dazed, but he knew that he had to get away from that place. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but they ached and throbbed, and the idea of infection terrified him. Already he felt too weak to fight, and if he went on lying in that filthy den he would get worse. If the nightmare ogre-bird didn’t come to get him, he would die of blood poisoning.

  He had to get out, but there was no easy way to escape. The only openings were high above his head. To reach them he would have to climb up the walls of the cavern, almost to the top. Was that possible?

  He moved, experimentally.

  His right leg was stiff and awkward, but there was none of the agony he was expecting. The leg seemed to have gone numb. He wasn’t sure how much blood he had lost. There were dark stains underneath him, but the dust had caked his wound, forming a crust that had sealed it and stopped the bleeding.

  The wound on his arm was much more painful. He poked at it with his other hand. It wasn’t deep, and it didn’t seem to be infected—yet. It hurt when he moved his arm, but at least he could still do that. The only sensible thing was to grit his teeth and try to climb before it became impossible.

  He struggled onto his hands and knees and crawled through the wood dust to the cavern wall. The moment he touched that, he knew that it was wood, too. The cavern was as high as a cathedral, and the whole crumbling, tattered space was lined with rotting wood.

  As it had crumbled, the wood had left hundreds of spikes and steps and ledges all the way up the wall. Robert gripped the nearest projection, using it to pull himself up. He was half-expecting it to give way under his weight, but it held firm, and he reached up for the next ledge, feeling around for a foothold with his good leg.

  As he hauled himself onto it, his bad leg began to tremble. He pulled it up beside the good one and moved his hands higher. He had to put his weight on the bad leg so that he could find a second foothold. When he had heaved himself onto it, he lay against the wall, recovering from the effort.

  He was off the ground. And if he had climbed one step, he could climb another. And another. He gripped one of his wooden handholds and reached for the next.

  It took ten times as long as he expected to climb up to the nearest opening, and he had to force himself to concentrate on what he was doing. Each time he rested, he looked up at the opening, afraid that he might see the light blocked out by the terrible silhouette of the ogre-bird. But the light stayed steady. And slowly, as he climbed, it grew brighter and pinker, lighting the wood around it.

  From beyond the opening, he could hear unfamiliar noises, but he closed his mind, refusing to wonder about them. His business was climbing, not imagining. And the climbing needed every ounce of will and energy that he could raise.

  Just below the opening, he stopped for a long time, gathering his strength. Then he gripped the edge of the hole and hauled himself up, so that his face was level with it. The sudden light dazzled him, and he lowered his forehead onto the wood at the edge of the hole, waiting for his eyes to recover. Breathing the fresh, cold air that was like water running off a mountain.

  When he lifted his head again, he could see the rough gray surface outside the hole. It sloped gently upward, falling away at the sides. Heaving himself higher, he wriggled his shoulders through the opening and hauled the rest of his body after them. Once he was out, he sprawled full length for a couple of minutes, exhausted and shaking. Then he rolled over and sat up cautiously.

  He was sitting in some kind of gigantic tree, vast beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined. The branch where he sat was as wide as a room, with rutted, irregular bark, covered with grotesque swellings. Leaves stretched over his head like awnings and clustered underneath him, shutting out most of the view in all directions.

  But straight ahead there was a small break in the leaves. By tilting his head slightly, he could see through the break and away into the distance. The view was quite different from anything he had expected.

  He was looking down on an expanse of grass as green and level as a lawn. And beyond the grass—

  He lifted his eyes and saw a tall red spire, rising steadily into the sky.

  That’s the cathedral, he thought. Automatically.

  And then, It can’t be . . . .

  But it was. There was no mistaking the grimy, sandstone ribs, blurred smooth by centuries of weather. He’d known that sight all his life. He could walk there from home in twenty minutes or so.

  How could he see the cathedral from this jungle of alien trees and armadillos and monstrous, murderous birds?

  He shuffled along the branch, to get a better view. Now he could see the high-rise office buildings in the city center. And the tight sweep of the highway. And the big, new shops, sur-rounded by seas of empty parking lots. If he looked nearer, he could see his own house, facing him across the expanse of grass.

  But looking nearer still—there was a rift in reality.

  On the far side of the rift was his home, the ordinary, everyday city where he lived when he wasn’t away on vacation or getting involved in plane crashes.

  On his side
of the rift was the jungle, and the ogre-bird, and the great tree where he was sitting, on the edge of the dark wood.

  His eyes moved backward and forward, from one to the other, as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. Where did one reality end and the other begin?

  He looked back at the cathedral and forced himself to put it together. Fixing his eyes on the spire, he slowly let them travel nearer.

  Across the city.

  Over the highway and the shops.

  Past his own house and across the road in front of it, into the park.

  Then, slowly, carefully, right across the park, coming nearer and nearer until he saw the hedge in front of the brambly woods

  and—looking straight down now—

  the normal, ordinary, middle-sized

  oak tree

  where

  he

  was

  sitting.

  HE DID IT THREE TIMES, TO MAKE SURE. THERE WAS NO

  mistake. There was no rift in reality. He was exactly where he seemed to be, sitting in an oak tree on the west edge of the park.

  He knew after the first time that it was the only explanation. Even before he turned right and saw the railway line running down the side of the park. But he had to do it three times to make himself take it in.

  To understand how far from home he really was.

  II

  10

  KlU, CALLED THE NIGHT BIRD, LOW AND VERY CLOSE. KlUUUUU.

  In the cavern, Cam looked left and right, counting heads. They were all there, except for Nate and Perdew, and she had no worries about them. They were quick and cunning. No prey for the bird. Everything looked fine.

  But her instincts told her there was something wrong. And the bird was part of it.

  Lorn knew what was up. That was as plain as the moon on a clear night. Two or three minutes ago she had come crawling in through the tunnel, scrambling as fast as she could. All the others had turned their heads away, looking past her, but Cam had kept watching, surreptitiously. She had seen Lorn’s white, breathless face and the empty batpack crumpled in her right hand.

  And she’d seen her wince, the first time the night bird called.

  Now Lorn was sitting in a corner, away from everyone else. Her head was bent over the batpack, but she wasn’t mending it or folding it. Her hands were still. Secretly, under her eyelids, she was staring at the tunnel entrance.

  Cam’s head was full of questions, but she didn’t ask them. She kept her mouth shut and her head turned away. Lorn’s punishment wasn’t nearly over yet.

  The bird called again—kiuuuuuu—and there was a scream. Very close to the cavern. It was impossible to tell what creature had made the noise, but it had an unnerving, human sound. Cam heard a rustle as Lorn shifted uneasily, and she saw her shadow flicker on the opposite wall of the cavern.

  Bando heard the bird’s call, too. He lurched up from beside the brazier, heavy and distraught, with his fists clenched and his great arm muscles knotted.

  "The bird’s got them," he said, panicky and fearful. "It’s got Nate and Perdew."

  Cam put a hand on his arm. She could feel him shaking, and she knew what he wanted. He was longing to sidle across to Lorn and bury his head in her shoulder, to let her reassure him. But he knew better than that.

  Cam patted the arm as gently as she could. "They’re fine," she said. "Don’t worry."

  But Bando went on trembling.

  Kiuuu. The bird was rising into the air now, banking toward the bitter-nut tree. Picturing the flight in her mind, Cam watched Lorn out of the corner of her eye. She saw her head swivel slowly, following the melancholy, drawn-out sound.

  There was something wrong, and the bird was part of it.

  THE OTHER TWO DIDN’T COME BACK UNTIL IT WAS LIGHT. CAM slept uneasily, listening for them. Just after sunrise, she was woken by noises in the tunnel. Zak was already awake, sitting up in his sleeping place by the entrance. He pulled away the branches that blocked the mouth of the tunnel.

  Without turning, Cam heard Lorn sit up, too.

  Nate crawled into the cavern slowly, looking very tired, with Perdew close behind him. Without a word Cam went to the shells and fetched them some water. They sat against the wall and drank in turn. Then Perdew leaned back and took a long, shuddering breath.

  "He was on the bridge," he said. "Right in the middle, in the open. He stopped."

  Cam imagined it so sharply that she almost cried out. She saw the small figure standing clear and stark on the fallen trunk. The great wings swooping down. Cruel talons slicing into living flesh. And then—

  She turned away abruptly—and bumped into Lorn who had crept up behind her without making a sound. The shock of finding her there sparked Cam into a fury.

  "You’re a fool!" she said savagely, straight into Lorn’s face. The rules didn’t matter now. This went way beyond the punishment they’d fixed so far. "I thought we’d warned you enough, but you didn’t leave him alone, did you? You led him here. And now you’ve killed him."

  "Killed?" said Bando’s voice, quick and fearful, from halfway down the cavern.

  Cam hadn’t realized that he was awake. They were all waking now. Stirring and muttering, asking each other what had happened. Tina tried to put an arm around Bando’s shoulders, but he shook himself free, gazing at Cam and Lorn.

  "Lorn’s killed someone?" he said.

  "Not just me!" Lorn was furious, too, but it was a desperate, unfocused anger, lashing out at everyone. "We all killed him! He didn’t know it was dangerous to stop on the bridge. He didn’t know anything!" It was the first time she had spoken for days, and her voice was raw and harsh. "If we’d told him where he really was—if he’d understood what—"

  All across the cavern, people shifted unhappily, muttering in the shadows. Cam spoke quickly, to change the mood.

  "He had to prove himself first," she said. "That’s how we do it. You know we can’t take in everyone. We can’t cope—"

  We can’t cope with any more losers. She couldn’t say it, because Bando was there, but they all knew what she meant.

  "So we waited," Lorn said bitterly. "And now he’s dead."

  Nate hesitated. "He might not—"

  Suddenly the whole cavern was very still. Perdew looked around and shook his head, but Nate wouldn’t be silenced.

  "We can’t be sure he’s dead," he said. "We couldn’t see clearly. The night bird had him in its foot, and he twisted as they went up. He must have been alive then—when it took him up into the bitter-nut tree. After that we lost them. We stayed and watched as long as we could, but it was impossible—"

  Annet pushed another log onto the brazier, and the fire flared up. In the red light, Cam saw Zak’s face sharpen.

  "From up in that tree, you can see everything," he said softly.

  Cam’s mind began to make the picture, and she shut it down fast. "He’s not going to see anything, is he?" she snapped. "Not if he’s dead."

  "But if he’s alive—" Zak let the words trail away. There was no need to finish. They all understood what he meant. If he’s alive—he knows now.

  Cam felt her breath stop as the memory came at her. The moment of knowing. It was the memory she’d been holding back—that they’d all been holding back—ever since they’d seen the boy fall out of the sky.

  Be careful, Zak, she thought. Be careful.

  But Zak was never careful. He would say what he had to say. And if they didn’t like it, he would disappear, slipping out of the cavern and up into the tangled branches, too fast for . anyone to follow. Once he’d been gone for a whole month, and they’d had to tell their own stories, stumbling awkwardly over the words and drawing in the air with their hands.

  "Remember how it was," he said, "when you first understood."

  Cam wasn’t sure she could stand it. "The boy’s dead," she said roughly. "You don’t have to do this, Zak. Nate and Perdew saw the bird take him."

  Zak ignored her. Slowly, with ceremony, he sat down on the
ground, crossing his legs and dropping his hands loosely into his lap. One by one the others sat, too, turning to look at him. Waiting for the story.

  When everyone was sitting, except for the two by the brazier, Zak began to speak.

  "Once there was a girl who lived in a tall tower. Her father was a great wizard, and her mother could change the shapes of things. They conjured a steel tower out of the common earth and used their knowledge and their skills to raise it high into the air, above attack and hunger, above disease and death. It was impregnable."

  The cavern stilled. In the shadows, people settled back against the walls, watching Zak’s face. Lorn and Dess and Annet. Nate and Perdew. Even Bando in his dark corner.

  Even Cam.

  "The girl’s parents loved her so much," Zak said, "that they shielded her eyes with dark glasses and protected her hands with gloves. They wrapped the tower in spells to keep out grief and pain, and they filled her days with all kinds of magic delights, so that she never needed to leave the tower." He stopped.

  "And then?" Dess said, after a moment.

  Zak spread his hands. "That’s the end. She lived happily ever after."

  "But she must have come out of the tower," said Nate.

  "Why?" Zak shook his head. "The tower had everything she could possibly need. Why would she want to come down onto the dirty, dangerous ground?"

  He looked at Cam, challenging her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Nor would Dess or Perdew or Annet or . . . Zak looked at each of them, one by one. No one said a word.

  Until he reached Lorn.

  Lorn was following his eyes as he turned. When he looked at her, she spoke abruptly. Fiercely. "She has to get out of there. Or she’ll die."

  "But she has everything she needs," Zak said softly. "Why would she die?"

  Lorn stared at him, lost for an answer, and Bando interrupted.

  "She has to leave the tower. Or else it’s not a story. She has to leave the tower and have adventures."

  "What kind of adventure do you want?" Zak said easily. "Shall I make her climb mountains? Wade through rivers? Fight huge monsters?"